


The Lord Giveth.....

by springburn



Series: Random musings from The Capaldi character file. [16]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Comfort and hurt, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Love, Nursing, Peter Capaldi character file, Relationship(s), Sick fic.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 17:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6204319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springburn/pseuds/springburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu, is taken ill, can he be saved?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lord Giveth.....

**Author's Note:**

> This was a great prompt from Petersgal who always provides me with great material to work with......and I thank her sincerely!
> 
> "The cardinal is ill,he knows how it feels to be poisoned so knows its not that,he is not good and all those who respect him are worried,what is it...????hope thats ok...x" 
> 
> Sweating Sickness was a disease of the summer months mainly, and was first recognised around the time of the Wars of the Roses. It lasted until well into the Tudor period in England, springing up in France and elsewhere until the mid seventeenth century.

THE LORD GIVETH....

Trinity Sunday and the Cathedral was decked in all its finery. The emerald green of the altar cloth, the shimmer of the gold thread in his cope, which caught the light as he moved. 

A watery sun shafting through the stained glass casting coloured patterns onto the tiled floor below.  
With each sweep of the sensor a waft of incense billowed forth, momentarily clouding the view, then hanging in the air for a few seconds before dissipating up towards the vaulted ceiling. 

Above the heads of the congregation the cherubim and seraphim stared down with sightless eyes.  
Their chubby hands raised on high.  
Saints and apostles in cold stone presided over the service with a baleful glare. 

The Cardinal raised an arm in benediction.  
A mantra for the faithful.  
Strains of the Te Deum filled the nave.  
Soaring upwards and resounding from the oak beams and the perpendicular arches, echoing across the fan architraves and the flying buttresses which supported this vast edifice, built to the glory of God. 

_Te deum laudamus te dominum confitemur_  
_Te aeternum patrem omnis terra veneratur_  
_Tibi omnes angeli Tibi caeli et universae_  
_potestates_  
_Tibi cherubim et seraphim incessabili voce_  
_proclamant_  
_Sanctus sanctus sanctus dominus deus sabaoth_  
_Pleni sunt celi et terra maiestatis gloriae tuae._

 _You are God: we praise you;_  
_You are the Lord: we acclaim you;_  
_You are the eternal Father:_  
_All creation worships you._  
_To you all angels, all the powers of heaven,_  
_Cherubim and Seraphim, sing in endless praise:_  
_Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of_  
_power and might,_  
_heaven and earth are full of your glory._

The light from many yellow candles flickered and danced as the celebrants moved down the nave.  
Robes swinging and rustling as they walked.  
Richelieu's eyes scanned the assembled populace, coming to rest upon the current object of his desires.  
The Lady Eloise. Only minor nobility.  
But a pretty little thing. Pert and flower like. With skin like rose petals.  
As he watched she crossed herself, her eyes lowered in supplication. 

He licked his lips at the thought of entertaining her later in his chambers. 

It was then that he stumbled. Almost fell.  
He was caught by the chaplain and one of the priests, before he could go down. Quickly regaining his composure.

It was God's punishment. For certainly he would go to Hell for his wickedness. 

oOo

Seated on a heavy chair of Indian ebony. Red velvet upholstery.  
Dressed now in his workaday wear.

Breeches. Soft and supple high leather boots. Heavy jerkin, also of leather, a gold cross on a thick chain hung against his chest. His cape discarded to one side.  
His hands played absentmindedly with the rings he wore on each third finger, twisting them.  
She moved into his sight. A vision. Petite, fair, with an innocent countenance. Carrying a silver cup in her hand.  
"Wine sire?" She said, offering the vessel.

His glance told her of a sense of weariness, and he sighed, taking the cup from her outstretched hand, and gesturing her towards his lap.  
She perched there without a moments consideration.  
"Are you tired. Your Eminence?" She took the cup back and placed it to one side. Bringing her small hands to his temples and massaging them gently, the faint smell of lavender reached his nostrils.  
His head fell back, eyes fluttering shut at the delicacy of the touch.  
"I feel a weariness upon me. One that speaks of a great malady." He muttered in response.  
A shiver ran through his body. 

"Sire, your skin feels hot to the touch, and yet you seem cold."  
There was a slight hint of concern in her voice. 

"My head pounds. My neck and shoulders are sore and they ache. I could sleep for a week."  
His voice seemed distant, his words slurred. 

"Your Eminence, you should be in bed. Please......let me assist you."  
Jumping down from her perch, she took his hand and helped him up. 

He swayed slightly, and clutched at her for support. 

"My Lord! You are unwell. Let me fetch someone." She became increasingly alarmed.

Easing him onto the bed, she ran for assistance.  
His manservant came at the double, and would have sent her away, but he wouldn't hear of it.  
"She stays. She is balm. I will have her near me." He murmured drowsily. 

The physician was called. Examined him. Bled him.  
Applied a poultice to his chest, made of bran, flour and herbs, a remedy to reduce inflammation, although there was none that she could see. 

Moving back he turned to her.  
"Are you his nurse?" He enquired tartly.  
"I am!" She replied, a note of defiance in her voice.  
"Then there's little you or anyone can do but pray for him. He has The Sweating Sickness."  
Gathering together his equipment he left the room. Pausing only to receive his payment. 

The heavy drapes were drawn across, muting the light. The atmosphere in the room hot and stuffy in the summer heat.  
Only the candlelight cast ghostly shadows on the walls.  
Richelieu lay, bathed in perspiration, beading on his brow and plastering his hair to his head.  
Burning with fever. 

Ignoring the manservant she drew back the curtains with a flourish and threw the window open wide.  
Letting in a cool breeze and the scent of roses from the garden below.  
Crossing to the bed, she stripped the covers from the shivering man and hauled him up.  
"Come along Sire. Out of those damp clothes!"  
She began to peel the sodden under shirt from his heated body, he offered no protest other than a tremble of the limbs and a grimace of pain.  
"Bring me cool water and a wash cloth. And strip these sheets.....put on fresh ones." She directed the servant.  
"We need to keep him cool and awake. If he sleeps he will sink down."  
The man stared at her, open mouthed. But didn't move.  
"My mother is a skilled woman, she saved my brother's life last year in the last epidemic." She explained. "Please. I beg you. Do as I ask."  
As if released from a spell the man did as she directed. 

She sponged him down as he lay before her. Naked as the day he was born. Yet she took no notice and he was much too far gone to care. A sheen now on his skin.  
He shook violently. Teeth chattering, and yet he was on fire.

In the chapel a mass for his safe deliverance was being sung. Although no hint of it reached them.  
All day and all night she remained at his side. Waking him if he drifted.  
He raved in his delirium. Reciting random lines from the scriptures. His head tossing from side to side.  
For many hours she wrestled with the death angel who had come to take him from this world. 

Exhaustion finally overcame her, and she slept, his hand in hers, her forehead resting upon it.  
Waking with a start, she felt him cool against her touch, and for a moment she thought he was gone. So pale was his countenance, so shallow his breathing.  
But no, there was life in him yet. 

She went down on her knees at the bedside and recited verses from Psalm 41. 

_.....The LORD will protect him and keep him alive, And he shall be called blessed upon the earth; And do not give him over to the desire of his enemies. The LORD will sustain him upon his sickbed; In his illness, You restore him to health._  
_Amen._

As she crossed herself, and made to rise, he opened his eyes.  
Turned his head towards her, and reached feebly for her hand. 

oOo

Warm sunshine filtered through the pleached lime trees which lined the gravel walk.  
Bumble bees buzzed in the lavender. Their legs pollen coated as they worked industriously from flower to flower. 

They walked, his arm held in hers, and a stick for support.  
Strength slowly returning.  
"I thank God for my deliverance. And for sending you to me." He said quietly. Easing himself into an arbour seat. Shaded and cool.  
"And I thank God for my mother, that she had the whit to defy the medical men, the strength of her own convictions. She heard that once the patient was asleep it was as if the body gave up, the sufferer sank down and death followed quickly. Burning with an unquenchable inner fire.  
She reasoned that cooling the body and preventing slumber, offered the invalid a chance to fight. So that is what she endeavoured to do. It worked. My brother was saved. I did the same for you."

He leaned over and touched his lips to hers gently. The feel of his beard against her chin, his mouth turning suddenly hungry, questing, growing more insistent.  
She responded eagerly, her bosom rising and falling rapidly under the strength of his need.  
Breaking apart, she whispered,  
"You are not yet at full strength my lord. I do not wish to tire you."  
"Nonsense!" He replied, his tone breathy and rapacious. "I desire you more now than ever." 

They were hidden from view both from the house and the rest of the garden.  
One hand began to hitch up her long skirts, pulling her into his lap. His mouth now locked on hers, teasing her into opening for him. Searching fingers stroking along the tender skin of her inner thighs, as he found her heat.  
"So beautiful." He murmured. "I could take you right here, make you beg me for more."  
Gasping out her want he began to drive her arousal higher and higher.  
Bringing her to rapid completion, feeling her press herself against him in her throes. 

"Touch me!" He rasped. "I ache for you."  
She looked down at his straining breeches, smiled into the kiss he was planting on her, and slid her small hand inside at the waistband.  
He was throbbing, wet and ready.  
Exposing him, she began to pump him, gently at first, but as his groans increased so did her pace.  
"Finish me!" He moaned. "I have no shame......release me from this torture."  
She continued until he pulsed into her hand and onto his own stomach. His head thrown back, mouth open in a silent roar of satisfaction. 

Afterwards she cleaned him. Put his clothes to rights for him. Tucked him back into his breeches.  
Then smoothed down her skirts, straightened her déshabillé. Tidied her curls. 

"I shall surely go to Hell." He admitted, "you have saved me only to condemn me again." 

"No, Your Eminence. Any sin of ours is forgiven during confession. I have saved you for the good of France." 

 

Fin.


End file.
